


Catch Tomorrow

by TheVineSpeaketh



Series: Love Actually Is All Around [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Altruism, Bagels, Clubbing, Combeferre & Enjolras Platonic Life Partners, Drunk Dialing, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello?” he asked, voice sultry with sleep.</p><p>“Bahorel,” an unknown voice said from the other end, and Enjolras’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out the voice. From the other end of the line, he could hear the steady thumping of a loud bassline echoing from inside a building. “Bahorel, Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet have forsaken me to make out in the corner of this club, and I’m feeling pretty third wheel.”</p><p>In which Grantaire drunk dials Enjolras and, thinking he is Bahorel, asks for a ride home... and Enjolras delivers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I saw an AU on tumblr that said "drunk dialed you for a ride yet you still came to get me au" and the plot bunny wouldn't leave me be, the cute little fucker.
> 
> Can I finally do my homework now? Good God.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)

Enjolras was accustomed to going to sleep at relatively early hours every night of the week, not just on weekdays, and as a result, he had certain strengths and weaknesses that others didn’t have. For example, he would grow incredibly grouchy if he wasn’t allowed to go to bed at his usual time, but interrupting his rest would result in a slightly-sleepy Enjolras asking what the matter was when you woke him.

Luck of the draw had it that Enjolras’s phone rang at around three in the morning, right in the middle of his sleep cycle. Instead of grouchily throwing his pillow over his head and ignoring it, he blearily opened his eyes and reached out toward the glow of his phone, picking up without checking the number and putting it to his hear. “Hello?” he asked, voice sultry with sleep.

“ _Bahorel_ ,” an unknown voice said from the other end, and Enjolras’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out the voice. From the other end of the line, he could hear the steady thumping of a loud bassline echoing from inside a building. “Bahorel, _Bahorel_ , Joly and Bossuet have forsaken me to make out in the corner of this club, and I’m feeling pretty third wheel.” His voice was slurring pretty heavily, and it didn’t take much for Enjolras to guess that he was probably pretty plastered, whoever this was. He chanced a glance at the clock; it was three in the morning. “I just kinda wanna get home and go to sleep now. I feel icky.”

“Can you get a cab?” he asked, brushing the sleep away from his eyes and sitting up, thinking on his options. On the one hand, this was somebody he didn’t know, who thought he was “Bahorel,” whoever that may be. He could just tell the guy he called the wrong number and that he couldn’t help him out. Maybe he could call him a cab and direct it to him.

“No, we’re in that shady part of town, the one where you told me not to get a cab without somebody else,” he said, sounding a bit like an obedient child. “And it’s just me, because Joly and Bossuet turned a friendly night out into a date night in less than point-five seconds. I’m sorry to wake you,” he said, his voice at once turning apologetic. “You were probably in bed with your girl. Shit, what time is it anyway?” There was a small shuffling noise, and then a distant-sounding curse before the voice returned. “Fuck, I’m so sorry Bahorel. I didn’t mean to wake you up, buddy.” There was a sound like someone brushed the phone with something, and then he said, “y’know what, no, I’m going to get a cab. You go back to bed. I’m sorry, man.”

Enjolras sat up, slinging his legs over the edge of his bed and turning on his nightstand lamp, already pulling on a hoodie over his t-shirt and searching for his Vans. “No, don’t do anything, I’m on my way,” he said, sliding on his shoes and moving out into the living room to grab his keys, making sure not to wake up Combeferre and Courfeyrac as he walked. “What club are you at?”

“I’m at Catch Tomorrow,” he slurred. “I’m sorry, Bahorel—”

“Stop apologizing,” Enjolras said, opening the front door and heading down the stairs. “It’s no problem at all, really. What are you wearing, so I can spot you?”

“My green hoodie, the one with the paint stains? I’ll be by the street sign. You can’t miss me. I’ll look like a sultry male prostitute.” He laughed at his own joke, and Enjolras huffed a laugh of his own. The drunk’s voice went quieter again, though. “Bahorel, I really am sorry.”

“Trust me,” Enjolras said, wondering why this guy would be so apologetic if it wasn’t really anybody’s fault, “it’s really no issue. I’d rather you wake me up and get a ride than have to work out a way out of there on your own while you’re drunk.” He was pretty sure if Bahorel was a good friend, he would say something to that effect.

“You’re a godsend,” the guy said, and Enjolras smiled. He climbed in his car, buckled up, and turned the key.

“I’m about to come get you, so sit tight, okay?” he asked, putting Catch Tomorrow in his GPS, thankful Combeferre had invested in one (despite Courfeyrac’s superstitions about it attempting to send him over a bridge once by telling him to turn right while he was driving across it). “Don’t talk to strangers,” he added as an afterthought.

“Yes, _mom_ ,” the guy replied, and Enjolras laughed. “R out.”

“See you soon,” Enjolras replied, and he hung up as he pulled out.

It was a crappy night to be out and about, Enjolras realized, and as he wound his way further and further into the city, the weather grew worse and worse, until actual raindrops were spattering his windshield. He cranked up the heat in his car and cracked the windows a little, hoping that he could try to warm the guy up once he got a hold of him.

It wasn’t too long—maybe half an hour—but he finally got there, turning onto the street where he could hear the same beat that he heard on the phone pumping through the street, the song within droning on and on. If Enjolras didn’t know any better, he would have thought this was a strange hookah bar-slash-club, and not just a club. The whole establishment radiated a “get stoned” vibe, and the music sounded vaguely psychedelic in nature.

He peered through the rain to the best of his ability, looking for the green paint-stained hoodie. He found it hanging off a lithe form leaning against a street sign, head of dark curls tossed back and face turned up to the sky. He pulled over to the sidewalk, headlights still on, and turned off the car, pulling the keys out and getting out of the car. He approached the man, barely having been in the rain three seconds and already freezing, and tapped his shoulder.

His head jerked down and he turned to look at Enjolras, his eyes wide. “Oh, hey,” he said, coming away from his lean on the pole for a moment before giving Enjolras a sudden look and once again situating his weight on it. “Wait a second,” he said, crossing his arms. “Sorry. I can’t talk to strangers. Friend’s orders.”

“Bahorel sent me,” Enjolras said, and the man looked at him again, giving him a quick once-over before giving him a look of confusion.

“Are you Bahorel’s girlfriend?” he asked. “Because if so… Damn. You’re prettier than I remembered.”

“I’m not Bahorel’s girlfriend,” Enjolras replied. The guy looked unconvinced. “I’m a man,” he added.

Just like that, the man’s eyes widened, and he looked Enjolras over again. “No shit, really?” he asked, and he began laughing. “You are too gorgeous not to be a hallucination. Someone must have spiked my drinks.”

“Come on, R,” he said, adding the nickname belatedly when he remembered hearing him say it. “We’ve got to get out of the rain, okay? You’ll get sick.”

Nodding, R once again came away from his lean against the pole and followed Enjolras to his car. “Sure thing. Joly would kill me if I caught a cold standing out here.”

Enjolras unlocked his car, hoping beyond hope it was still warm inside it as he and R pulled open the door. Fortuitously, it was, and they situated themselves into their seats, Enjolras once again adjusting the mirror and turning on the car. Putting his apartment’s address in the GPS, he pulled away from the sidewalk and began driving again.

Next to him, R pulled out his phone, tapping a text out to somebody and sending it before clicking the screen off. “Just telling Bossuet I’m getting a ride,” he murmured, and Enjolras nodded absently, focused on the road. R, however, was not a quiet drunk, and so Enjolras’s focus was broken by the sound of his voice. “So, how do you know Bahorel? I’ve never seen him hang out with you, and you’re, like, too gorgeous to be from work or something.”

“I do him favors sometimes,” he replied, not necessarily lying. “Just little things.”

“That’s pretty nice of you,” R said, his voice genuine. “I’m pretty sure ‘picking up drunk friends’ wasn’t on that list until now, huh?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t,” Enjolras said with a chuckle, flashing R a smile that told him he didn’t mind. He really had been worried that this poor drunken stranger, wherever he may have been, would have had to find his way back home in a creepy part of town all by himself.

All was silent for a bit, until R said, sounding quite drowsy, “You are too fucking pretty.”

Enjolras gave him a little smile that also portrayed his disbelief. “I don’t think so,” he replied, “but thank you.”

“No, you don’t understand,” R said, attempting in vain to straighten himself out, already seeming to succumb to his sleepiness. “You’re, like, ungodly gorgeous. It isn’t fair for Bahorel to know you before I did. He probably made you feel self-conscious about it, didn’t he? That’s why you don’t think so, isn’t it? What an ass. I ought to strangle him. You’re a work of art.” He snuggled his face into his arm, curling into himself in the seat and closing his eyes. He yawned a deep-belly, heartfelt yawn. “Don’t listen to Bahorel.”

Enjolras chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road and trying not to be distracted by R’s adorable display. “I won’t.”

Half an hour later, the first veins of sunlight were beginning to stream out into the air from the horizon, and Enjolras pulled over in front of his apartment and turned off the ignition. Enjolras would have asked R where he lived so he could drop him off, but when he looked over to do so, R had been fast asleep. Against his better judgment, he had decided that R could just sleep it off on their couch, and he could hopefully get into R’s cell phone and send Bahorel a text or give him a call when the time was appropriate to tell him where R was.

As it stood, he currently had a semi-comatose drunk and three flights of stairs to contend with. He got out of the car, going around to the other side and opening R’s door. Tentatively, he leaned forward and gently tapped R’s shoulder, surprised when his eyes opened almost immediately. From the glassy look in them, Enjolras could tell he was still particularly drunk, and he leaned back as R stretched as much as he could in the car, blearily looking around him. “Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re at mine,” Enjolras said, gently coaxing R out of the car. “I figured you could sleep it off on my couch and I’ll tell Bahorel where you are. You’re too tired to do much else.”

R sighed, coming to a stand and swaying violently, Enjolras immediately coming underneath his arm and tugging him in close, holding him upright. R sighed again, giving Enjolras a sweet smile. “You’re an angel,” he said, and he waxed poetic about Enjolras’s many virtues the entire way up Enjolras’s stairs, though near the end he began to complain more about the amount of stairs Enjolras had in his apartment.

Enjolras unlocked his apartment, leading R immediately to the couch and gently shushing him when he started to speak again. “My roommates,” he said by way of explanation when he’d turned and seen R fix him with a wounded look. “We don’t want to wake them up.”

“Oh, right,” R said, nodding, and Enjolras let R slide onto the couch. He immediately curled up, his head resting on a throw pillow that he’d pulled tight into his chest. Enjolras looked around, finding an old quilt that Combeferre liked to curl up with when it was cold, and threw it over Grantaire, tucking him in before he could convince himself not to.

“Sleep well, R,” he murmured, R’s eyes already bleary again and a smile on his face. “If you need me, I’m just down the hall, first door on the left.” R nodded, and Enjolras took that chance to take his leave, moving down the hallway and back into his room. He settled himself into bed once more, smiling a little bit to himself, before turning his light off and going back to sleep.

The next morning, Enjolras woke up at nine on the nose to see Combeferre standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on Enjolras.

“I heard you leave this morning,” he said.

Enjolras blinked, sat up, and stretched himself toward the ceiling. It felt nice. Once he lowered his arms, he looked at Combeferre again. “You did? Sorry about that.”

Combeferre’s expression didn’t change. “There’s now a strange man asleep on our couch. He wasn’t there when we went to bed last night.”

“His name is R.” Combeferre raised an eyebrow, and Enjolras huffed a frustrated sigh. “He called me while he was drunk last night. He thought I was his friend Bahorel, which I obviously was not. He was in a shady part of the city and needed a ride, and I wasn’t going to leave him there.”

Combeferre just gave him the same look for a few more tense moments, then said, “What do you think you and R would like for breakfast? Courf and I were going out to grab bagels.”

Enjolras sighed in relief, giving Combeferre a grateful look. “You can’t go wrong with a plain bagel, cream cheese, and orange juice,” Enjolras replied. “And cinnamon raisin for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure,” Combeferre replied. “We’ll see you in a bit. Make sure he gets water if he wakes up.” Combeferre then moved away from the door, disappearing quietly into the living room.

“I will,” Enjolras said, just loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to possibly wake R. Speaking of, he needed to get in touch with Bahorel to tell him where R was, so he could come get him. He came to a stand, throwing his hoodie on from last night and padding out into the living room, not bothering to tame his mussed hair or to get himself ready for the day. It was Sunday, so all he had to do was write a few papers and maybe pop into his work study to talk to his boss about a few things: nothing too big to handle.

Coming out into the living room, he chanced a peek at R, who was indeed still on the couch, right as Enjolras had left him. In the light, Enjolras could study his features more easily, not that he was looking forward to doing such a thing since he’d first seen him the night before. His hair was pitch black and curled violently, his face thin almost to the point of being gaunt, his cheekbones jutting from underneath his skin like razors. His lips were thin, but benign, and his expression was one of complete relaxation.

Enjolras smiled to himself, thinking that the headache he would no doubt wake with would be far less relaxing than his little snooze on his couch, and he made his way into the kitchen to get him a glass of water and a few aspirin. He returned and placed them on the coffee table in front of R, noticing that his cell phone had somehow ended up sitting there—perhaps R had emptied his pockets before he went to bed.

Enjolras reached forward and picked it up, turning it over his hands, making note of the worn purple case covered in scratches and the somehow almost-spotless screen. He activated the screen, sliding it open and hoping that he had no password. To his surprise, it clicked open, and Enjolras moved from the room, going back into his own room and shutting the door behind him. He thumbed through the contacts, not taking too long to hit Bahorel’s name, and proceeded to call it.

It only rang twice before it was picked up. “Grantaire, you are 100% an idiot,” a deep, booming voice began, and Enjolras couldn’t slide a word in edgeways and was left to instead listen to a tirade about accepting rides from strangers, and how Bossuet and Joly were worried about him because he’d texted them that he’d gotten a ride home, only he hadn’t been home when they had gotten home, so they had assumed that he’d thought somebody else was Bahorel and had gone with them, and _he could have been killed for God’s sake, you’re going to give us three hernias apiece_.

“In my defense,” Enjolras said, “he did think I was you.”

“Who,” the voice immediately amended, somehow growing deeper and more sinister than before, “the fuck are you.”

“My name is Enjolras,” he replied. “Around three in the morning, Grantaire had called my number by mistake and had asked me for a ride home, because he was in a neighborhood where you had told him not to call a cab without somebody. I didn’t want him to get cold or have to wander home alone, so I picked him up and brought him to mine. He’s asleep on my couch right now, and we’re getting him bagels and orange juice.” Enjolras gave himself a moment to breathe before continuing. “I’m sorry to worry you like this, I know it’s horrifying losing a friend after they’ve been out all night”—Courfeyrac had given them a few scares like this during his “devil-may-care” phase—“but I want you to know he’s safe. We’ll feed him and you can come and get him.” He threw in his address, for good measure.

Bahorel was quiet all through this, and was quiet for a long while afterward. Finally, he spoke. “Enjolras, you are a better man than most people I know. For the sake of not causing myself any more worry, I’m going to believe you. I’d like it if you could put Grantaire on the phone, though.”

Enjolras winced, looking back toward his door. “He was really drunk, so he’ll probably be really hungover,” he said. “And he’s still asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Bahorel said. “You can blame me. Just, please. For my sanity, man.”

Enjolras couldn’t blame him. “Sure,” he replied, moving toward the living room again. He came to a stand in front of Grantaire, looking down at him, reluctant to wake him up and disturb what looked like a peaceful rest. “How should I wake him?” he asked Bahorel, mostly to stall for time.

“Just jostle him a little bit,” Bahorel replied. “Always seems to work.”

“Right.” Enjolras looked down at him and gently put his hand on Grantaire’ shoulder, wiggling it.

Just like the night before, Grantaire’s eyes opened, and then he sleepily moved into a yawn and a stretch, his eyes closing as he did so and a soft little groan escaping him. He opened his eyes again, looking up at Enjolras, and frowning a little bit. “Hello,” he said, looking like he didn’t have the slightest beginnings of a headache. “Where am I?”

“My apartment,” Enjolras replied. Grantaire looked like he was going to say more, but Enjolras beat him to it. “Bahorel wants to talk to you.” He held out the phone.

Grantaire looked at it, eyebrows furrowed, before taking it and pressing it to his ear. “Yello?” he said, and Enjolras could hear Bahorel’s voice even without the receiver being next to his ear. He imagined the next few minutes would consist of Grantaire being reamed out by Bahorel, so he moved to the kitchen to get started on last night’s dishes and possibly some coffee or tea.

After a few moments, during which he had just finished washing the dishes left in the sink and had begun the process of drying them and putting them away, Grantaire appeared in the kitchen with the phone to his ear, looking distant and far off. “Yeah, I’m in the same room as him,” he said, and Enjolras dried his hands, turning his attention to Grantaire and leaning back against the counter. Grantaire’s brow furrowed even further, if at all possible, as he said, “Onion bagel with butter and pepper jack cheese, but I don’t understand why that’s important right now.”

Enjolras pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket and shot a quick text to Combeferre. Grantaire watched his hands, his face puzzled for a moment before it stretched into one of disbelief. He put his hand over the receiver, turning it away from his face, and asked, “hey, you’re not buying me breakfast, are you?”

“I won’t dignify that question with an answer,” he replied, just catching Combeferre’s response in the affirmative before he slid his phone back into his pocket, smiling at Grantaire. “Don’t worry about it.”

Grantaire gaped at him for a moment before Bahorel’s voice sounded out again, and Grantaire glared at the floor, clearly directing it toward Bahorel. “No, I won’t just pretend to be blissfully ignorant of it. He’s buying me breakfast. He’s literally done way too much for me today. This is going better than it usually does with _you_ , and at least _you_ are expecting it.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Enjolras added, and Grantaire threw his free hand up in the air, resting it on the bridge of his nose.

“Bahorel, you’re not making this easier for me to handle,” he said, and Bahorel barked out a laugh. Grantaire, meanwhile, deadpanned. “Bahorel, I’m serious.” Another bout of Bahorel talking. “Yes, of course, it’s just my luck. It’s almost criminal.” He turned to Enjolras. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“If I wanted to, I would have done so already,” he said, still thinking on brewing that coffee.

Grantaire, meanwhile, huffed as if Enjolras was being unreasonable. Enjolras thought it was kind of adorable, though it was a slightly more cautious feeling than the night before due to Grantaire’s sobriety. Grantaire repeated his words to Bahorel. “I know. I’m convinced I’m already dead and I’m being rewarded for something I’ve done.” Enjolras could hear Bahorel say something along the lines of “what do you have to be rewarded for?” which Grantaire threw his hand up in the air again for and said, “I know, right?”

Enjolras decided he wanted something hot to drink after all. He turned toward the coffee maker, asking Grantaire, “Do you want any coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be lovely, please,” Grantaire replied, and Enjolras set the kettle on the stove. For a while, they simply coexisted, with Bahorel and Grantaire talking to each other and Enjolras working on getting their beverages ready. When Enjolras handed him his tea, Grantaire said, “Look, Bahorel, I have to go. He’s handing me my tea.” There was another bout of conversation, during which Grantaire sniffed his tea. “It’s chamomile. Listen, I really have to go. Okay, I’ll see you later. Goodbye.” He hung up, and accepted his tea with a grateful look. “You’re a saint,” he said in lieu of thanks.

“I’ve gathered as much from you before,” Enjolras replied, sipping on his coffee. “Do you want honey, or sugar, or milk, or anything?”

Grantaire, who had been drinking his own tea, shook his head. “No, I like it plain, thank you very much,” he replied, once again sipping on his drink. “So,” he began, “You picked me up while I was drunk last night, under no obligation whatsoever. Now that Bahorel’s not on the phone anymore, you don’t have to hide it. What do you want in return?”

Enjolras gave him a look. “Nothing,” he replied. “Absolutely nothing. It was my pleasure to be able to help, really. I wouldn’t have left you out there in the cold, alone and drunk.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and gulping some tea. “You’re impossible,” he said, making it sound as though it was a good thing. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire fixed him with a look that screamed “are you serious?”

“You picked me up, a complete stranger, while I was drunk last night—my name is Grantaire, by the way, hello—and took me to your apartment after I drunk dialed you. You let me crash on your couch. You had the decency to _call my loved ones_ and give them your address and let them know I was safe so they wouldn’t freak out. You bought me breakfast and made me tea. And here you are, all gorgeous and perched on the counter, telling me I don’t owe you a damn thing for all of that. Do you see my disbelief now?”

He sipped his tea, and Enjolras ruminated for a moment. He didn’t know precisely how to say that he enjoyed it, that it was his pleasure, that it was the least he could do for somebody else who needed help. He couldn’t find the words to express how Grantaire had fallen quite unexpectedly though not unpleasantly into his night and into his morning, and how seeing him in his kitchen made him happy. He was a pretty cool guy, as far as Enjolras could tell, and he wondered about his roommates, Joly and Bossuet, and what Bahorel’s work life was like, and about Grantaire himself. He could have lost that that very afternoon once Bahorel came for Grantaire and whisked him away, never to be seen again.

“There is one thing I’d like you to do for me, though,” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire fixed his gaze on him, holding the mug in his hands very low.

“Shoot,” he said, his voice not entirely void of a reasonable amount of anxiety. After all, Enjolras could ask him to do something heinous or discomfiting, and that would be within Grantaire’s sphere of doubt.

Luckily, his request was not one of such a nature. “You have to give me your number. It’s only fair.”

Grantaire’s nervousness broke out into a grin that reached his eyes, and he held up his mug, giving Enjolras a toast. “Sure thing, Apollo,” he said, nodding his head toward Enjolras, “for fairness’s sake.”

“Enjolras,” Enjolras interjected, giving Grantaire a smile of his own. “My name is Enjolras.”

“Very well,” Grantaire replied, looking at him over the rim of his mug. “Enjolras.”


End file.
